Jigsaw
by paperstorm
Summary: Part of my Deleted Series. The tag for 'Are You There God? It's Me, Dean Winchester', 4x2. Wincest.


**Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page. They will make more sense if read in order. :)**

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Bobby's car isn't in the parking lot when Sam gets back to the motel room, which probably isn't a good thing. Then he gets to the room they slept in last night, and all the windows and mirrors are blown out like a bomb went off and that's _definitely_ not a good thing. Sam freaks out. He checks the room for traces of blood or for signs of a struggle other than the broken glass that litters the floor, and he doesn't find either.

Pulling out his phone, he frantically dials Dean's number – the cell phone Sam never deactivated while Dean was gone. It rings four times and then Dean's recorded voice clicks on, and Sam's heart sinks. "This is Dean Winchester. Leave a message. If you're in trouble, call my brother Sam, at – " Sam presses the pound key to skip ahead to the beep.

"Dean, it's me, where the hell are you?" he asks, fear making his voice shake. "The room looks like a hurricane blew through it, call me."

He calls all of Dean's other phones, and Bobby's too, but they all ring a few times and then go to voicemail and he doesn't know what to do. Sam manages to sneak out of the building without being detected and gets himself a room in a different motel a few blocks away, and leaves another message for Dean, letting his brother know where he is. He's still freaked, but Dean usually finds a way of letting Sam know if something bad has happened, so Sam tries to remind himself of that and put it out of his mind while he waits. It isn't easy, and he knew it wouldn't be. Sam's always been protective of Dean, but he _just_ got Dean back. After four months of living in the most horrible nightmare imaginable, Sam finally has his brother back. Dean had been his everything; his lifeline, and when Dean died it had sucked the life right out of Sam too. He'd spent months wandering around as if he were a ghost. Empty, emotionless, and completely hollow. After the first few weeks without Dean, Sam had forgotten how to feel anything; even pain. Every minute of every day he found himself drowning in thick, black nothingness.

He can't lose him again.

He's doesn't believe what Dean said earlier, either. That he and Bobby were grabbing a beer in the middle of the night. But Sam didn't call him on it, because whatever secret Dean's keeping, Sam's secret is bigger. He wanted to send Ruby away forever the moment Dean got back, but now he knows he can't. Lilith still needs to pay for what she did, and Sam still needs Ruby to make that happen. So, reluctantly, he'll let her stay. For now, at least. And also for now, Dean can't know. He wouldn't understand. Sam himself doesn't even completely understand, all he knows is that what he's doing feels right. The promise of pulling a demon out of a person's body without hurting the person appeals to the part of Sam that's always ached inside every time he's had to use the knife. Killing the demons he's fine with, but killing the human they're wearing never sat right with him. Especially since Sam was possessed once. He knows what it's like. And Ruby has a way to turn that around, so it's a chance Sam has to take.

He falls asleep on the couch waiting for his brother to get back; wakes up with a start at a loud banging on the door. He inhales deeply, blinking his eyes back into focus. He gets up and peers cautiously through the peep-hole, but it's Dean. There's still a big part of Sam that's expecting to wake up and find this was all a dream, or for the Trickster to show up again. It's still hard to believe Dean's really back. Every time Sam sees him, relief washes over him again. Relief and a tight clenching in his chest that makes him want to grab Dean and hold him and never let go. But four months is a long time. Sam doesn't know if Dean still feels that way about him. He doesn't even know what he feels himself. Grief and revenge and the mystery of how and why Dean's back are all swirling inside Sam like a tornado, leaving him in a state of perpetual confusion that he can't seem to wipe away.

"Hey," he says as he opens the door quickly, his voice scratchy from sleep but still urgent. "Shit, I was worried, man, are you okay?"

"Hey, Sammy. Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, I should've called," Dean answers with a soft smile. He doesn't seem to be injured, so Sam wonders if maybe whatever happened in the motel room happened when Dean wasn't there. But there's something else behind his eyes too, and Sam knows he was right. Dean didn't grab a beer with Bobby. They went somewhere else, did something else, and Sam would be pissed at being lied to if he weren't hiding something himself.

Sam still wants to know where they were, though, so after he lets Dean in, he checks his watch and makes a show out of looking surprised. "Dude, you've been gone for hours. That beer turn into a bender?"

Dean doesn't look at him, and in a would-be-causal voice says, "Yeah, we … that might not've been completely the truth."

"I figured."

"Don't get mad, okay?"

Sam frowns. "Okay."

"We summoned, uh. Castiel."

Sam frowns even deeper, and just barely keeps his jaw from scraping the floor. His first instinct is to protest being left out of that, but then he doesn't want Dean to question where Sam was tonight, so he holds it back. "You … what happened?"

"He …" Dean huffs. "You're not gonna believe this. Because it's stupid."

"What?"

"He said he was an angel. Said he was the one who pulled me out."

Sam blinks and licks his lips and lets that sink in. "Angels are real?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "No. I mean, there's no way. He's for sure _something_, 'cause the knife and salt and iron just bounced off him like he'd been Scotchgarded. But an angel? I'm not buyin' it."

He wants to take exception with that, but for now Sam lets that go too. He's always believed angels were real, because he buys into that old adage that without good there can be no evil, but it probably isn't the right moment to argue that point with Dean. "What did he look like?"

Dean shrugs. "Just, like, a dude."

"Like a person?"

"Yeah. I mean, he wasn't, like, all white and fluffy and dancing on a cloud. He was just a guy. In a trench coat."

Sam frowns and squints at Dean, trying to understand what's happening right now. "And he said he was an _angel_?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that's what he said. Doesn't mean it's true."

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't know, Sam, 'cause monsters get a kick out of fucking with us? Bobby's gonna start looking into it when he gets home, maybe by the time we get there he'll have something. A way to gank this thing."

"Bobby went home? And wait, you guys are gonna summon it again?" Sam asks incredulously.

Dean just raises an eyebrow and stares at Sam like he's lost his mind. "Um, yeah. That's kinda what we do, remember? Hunt things that don't die when you stick a knife right where their heart should be?"

"Well, whether he's an angel or not, he still saved you! I get that you're freaked out, and man, so am I, but come on. Can we not just be _grateful_ about this for half a second before we start figuring out how to kill him?"

"Yeah, because he just plopped me topside out of the goodness of his own heart? Shit like that doesn't happen, Sam. Whatever he is, whatever he wants with me, there's no way it's good."

"You don't know that!" Sam insists.

"Look, I …" Dean sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. "In the morning we'll drive back to Bobby's and we're gonna hafta have this whole conversation again with him. Can we just table this for tonight? Please?"

Sam stares at him. "Why don't you wanna talk about it? Dean, this is kinda huge!"

"Because. Because I just got back, I … this is the first time we've been alone in, whatever it's been. For more than a few minutes, anyway."

"It's been four months."

"Yeah, exactly. I don't wanna fight with you right now."

"Well what do you want?"

Dean shakes his head helplessly, and looks away. "I don't know. Forget it."

"Dean."

He doesn't answer. He just walks slowly over to the bed and sits down on the edge of it, deliberately not looking at Sam. After a moment, Sam gets that the conversation is over, so he lets it go. He knows they'll go through it all again tomorrow with Bobby, so for the time being Sam holds his tongue. He joins Dean on the bed, sitting next to him.

"So," Sam starts, but then doesn't finish the thought. He has no idea what you're supposed to say to someone who's literally been to Hell and back. And come to think of it, he might actually be the first person to ever be in the situation.

"So," Dean repeats.

"You still feeling okay?

Dean doesn't answer and Sam could slap himself.

"I'm sorry, stupid question. I just …" He fidgets nervously. "I don't know what to say."

Dean offers Sam a small, sad smile. "Me neither. And I'm not hurt or anything, if that's what you meant."

"I don't know what I meant."

"You … you seem … I don't know, different," Dean says quietly.

"Yeah. That's 'cause I am," Sam answers.

"Feel like tellin' me what's up with you?"

Sam shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment. Every minute he spends with Dean, it's getting harder to keep pretending he isn't smashed up inside. He gets up, walking a couple steps away from his brother. He doesn't mean for it to happen, but his voice is tight with irritation as he grinds out, "What's _up_ with me is that I spent four months without you. Did you really think I was just gonna be fine after your deal was up? That I was gonna move on like nothing happened? You died, Dean, right there in front of me. And given that you know exactly what that feels like, I would've thought you could figure out why maybe I'm a little off."

"Fine, forget I asked," Dean mutters. Sam glances back at him, immediately sorry for losing his temper, and Dean's staring at his own hands with a frown on his face. "What are we doing?"

"What d'you mean?"

"We're not even fighting about anything, we're just … fighting."

Sam swallows and exhales heavily, and goes back to join Dean on the bed. He leans over, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Why'd you cut Bobby out?" Dean asks.

Sam pauses, and then he carefully asks, "What did he tell you?"

"Just that you wouldn't return his calls. You should'a seen his place, man. It's hard to believe his liver didn't give out."

"Yeah, well," Sam mumbles. "Losin' you … you don't know what it was like."

"M'sorry."

Sam shakes his head, and then he admits, "We, uh, we had a bit of a fight the last time I saw him. Couple weeks after you …"

"What happened?"

"He – he called me Sammy." Sam fixes his gaze on the floor in front of him.

"And?" Dean pushes.

"And I punched him."

"Shit, Sam, what?!" Dean groans.

Sam shrugs. He knows he shouldn't have done it, but he still can't bring himself to feel particularly guilty. If anything, it bugs him that Dean _isn't_ upset over it. "Nobody but you gets to call me that."

"I …" Dean's voice and expression softens. "C'mon, I know that, but still. You could've just asked him not to. You didn't have to hit him. And shit, I mean, you let Dad call you that, and Bobby's pretty damn near a second father to us."

"Look, I told him I was sorry, okay? It's just – "

"What?"

Sam forces himself to look into Dean's eyes. They're the same, beautiful shade of mossy green that Sam remembers so clearly, and they still see right through him. "You were gone, and – and I never wanted to hear that name again. Not when it didn't come from you. When it _couldn't_ come from you."

Dean takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, Sam's almost surprised that he doesn't look mad. He looks almost … understanding. And miserable. Like he'd let Sam down by not being around to use the nickname. But then Dean looks away again and doesn't say anything else, and Sam goes back to feeling like his insides have been ripped out. This shouldn't be so hard. They're acting like strangers, and Sam hates it. There are a million things swirling around in his hundred-miles-a-minute brain; a million things he wants to ask and tell Dean, but nothing seems right.

"I missed you," he ventures after a few silent moments. It sounds so stupid, but he can't think of anything else to say.

"Missed you too, kiddo."

"You don't remember anything," Sam points out, and then Dean sighs again.

"Yeah. I guess I just … I don't know. I'm sure I _did_ miss you. I guess that's what I meant."

Sam nods, and fights back tears again as he mumbles, "I can't even explain how much I missed you."

Dean doesn't answer, and Sam feels his inner walls crumbling. He's worked so hard the last four months to keep them strong, to keep himself from breaking, and now Dean's back and Sam can't do it anymore.

"I know you don't remember what happened, and that's … I mean, under the circumstances, that's a really good thing, but man … I remember. I remember everything. I remember watching you get ripped apart, and standing there pinned to the wall, screaming at Lilith to stop and she wouldn't. I remember lying there for like an hour before Bobby could get me to move, covered in your blood and holding onto you and sobbing, and …" he trails off and takes a shaky breath. He wants to tell Dean how broken he was, how vividly he remembers every excruciating minute of the time Dean was gone, how there were days where Sam couldn't even get out of bed. But he doesn't want Dean to know. Dean's dealing with enough right now, it's not fair to dump all that on him.

"Sammy," Dean whispers, and Sam's not sure if he did that on purpose or not, after what Sam told him about Bobby, but the nickname fills Sam up with an unexpected spreading warmth that he hasn't felt in a long time. Sam's hand reaches out automatically and takes Dean's, and he smiles when Dean squeezes back.

Taking the gesture as a silent permission, Sam slides closer to Dean and brings his other hand up to his brother's cheek. Dean smiles up at him with soft hopefulness in his watery eyes, and for whatever reason, it's the final straw and Sam can't hold back any more. He pulls Dean's face toward his, slowly pressing a questioning kiss into his brother's soft lips.

Dean's still for a moment, and Sam tries not to panic. Maybe they should've talked about this first, maybe it wasn't fair for Sam to just assume they'd get this part of their relationship back after so long. But after a few long seconds, Dean leans into the kiss, parting his lips slightly against Sam's. Sam feels like he's suddenly glowing on the inside. He worked so hard while Dean was gone to push the feelings and the pain and the agony away; he's not sure he realized exactly how much he'd missed this until right now. Sam rubs his tongue against Dean's lower lip, humming happily when Dean lets him in.

Nothing else in the world feels like this. It feels like _home_.

Sam is determined to let Dean make the fist move to take things further, not wanting to push, and after a minute Dean does. Without breaking the heated kiss, he stands up and pushes Sam backwards onto the bed. Sam scoots up until his head's resting on a pillow and Dean's on his hands and knees on top of him. He kisses Dean desperately; delirious with what he thought he'd never get back, and runs his hands over Dean's ribs. It's good but it isn't enough. Sam needs more; after four months of being completely and totally alone, he needs everything Dean can give him.

Desperation edges on an urgency Sam has no control over, and Dean whispers, "Shh," against his lips. "It's okay," he says, and it isn't, but Sam doesn't bother pointing that out.

There's more than teeth and tongues and lust behind the way Dean kisses him; there's_ love_, and there always was before too but it's more intense now than maybe it's ever been. Sam gets that anchored feeling again – Dean's always been Sam's tether when he's spinning too fast. Chaos is everywhere, but somehow Sam's always found peace when he's with Dean. There is nothing other than this. Dean's lips on his and Dean's hands on his neck and Dean's quickly growing erection pressing into his hip and Dean's fingertips heading towards his belt. Sam wants to sob and scream and laugh all at the same time over how perfect it is, how much he _ached _for this, how much it hurt to think he'd never have it again.

And then Dean pauses. He runs his hand over Sam's stomach, and then pulls back and looks down at Sam with a smirky-smile on his face. "Well, this is new."

"What is?"

Dean climbs off the bed and holds out his hand. "Get up."

"What? Why?"

"C'mere, let me look at you."

Sam takes Dean's hand and lets himself be pulled up to standing.

Dean reaches for the bottom of Sam's shirt and pulls it over his head, stepping back a bit and eyeing Sam's chest. "Whoa."

Sam huffs in annoyance. "Okay, cut it out."

Dean ignores him. "Shit, Sammy. When the hell did you become Rambo? Turn around." Dean grabs Sam's arms and spins him to face the window.

Sam rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. "Alright, you've had your look, can you please cut it out now?"

Sam flinches a bit as he feels rough hands settle on his shoulder blades. Dean traces his hands down Sam's back, pausing a moment around the sides of Sam's ribcage, and then fingertips run over where Sam knows the scar is from when Jake stabbed him. Dean's been fixated with that spot since it happened, although they've never talked about it.

Still self-conscious under the scrutiny, Sam moves away before Dean's stopped touching him and sits back on the edge of the bed. "I've been working out a bit. It's not a big deal."

"A bit?" Dean repeats incredulously. "Yeah, I can see that. You're like the Hulk on 'roids."

Sam isn't sure whether to be flattered or insulted by that comment. Mostly he just wants Dean back in his arms. If this is all a trick or a dream, Sam wants to get as much of his brother out of it as he can.

"I guess me being damned for eternity had its perks after all," Dean jokes, and something hot and uncomfortable rolls through Sam's gut.

"Don't say that."

For a moment Dean keeps grinning, but then his face falls like he gets that Sam's serious. They're silent for a moment while Sam takes his turn to frown down at his hands. He knows he's packed on a good amount of muscle, but it has nothing to do with how he looks. His new muscles protect him. They make him tougher, faster, stronger. For the last few months they've given him a glimmer of the security he used to feel when Dean was around.

"So why'd you go and get all ripped on me anyway?" Dean asks after a few minutes.

Sam shrugs. "I had to. With you not around to watch my back anymore, I had to be – y'know. Better."

A look of understanding passes over Dean's face, followed by something that looks a lot like sadness. He makes his way over to the bed and sits back beside Sam.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you."

"Don't be sorry."

"I am. I'm the one who got us into this whole mess."

"You really did think I'd be okay without you, didn't you?" Sam asks, already knowing and hating the answer.

Dean doesn't respond, probably because he knows he doesn't need to. He leans in to kiss Sam again, and Sam lets him because once Dean's lips touch his, everything else kind of melts away. He breaks it momentarily to pull Dean's shirt over his head and toss it to the floor, and Dean tucks one leg up on the bed so he can turn towards Sam. Suddenly Sam's hands can't get enough. He drags them slowly from Dean's neck, down his chest and then up Dean's back, loving the way Dean's warm, smooth skin turns to goosebumps at Sam's touch. He remembers this all so well. Every noise Dean makes and his skin under Sam's fingers, burned into Sam's brain years ago. Even drowning in the agony of losing him, Sam never forgot the way this feels.

He goes to slide his hands down Dean's arms, and his palm passes over the new scar, the handprint on Dean's shoulder. Sam hadn't forgotten about it but he put it out of his mind after Pamela started screaming, and now it comes back to him. He reluctantly breaks the kiss and nudges Dean over a little so he can get a better look at it. It's almost a perfect stamp of a male, human hand, a little smaller than Sam's, and it's red and nasty looking and blistered like it was burned into Dean's flesh.

"So, this is from him? Castiel?"

Dean nods. "Guess so."

"Does it hurt?" Sam runs his fingers over it gently, but Dean shakes his head.

"Can't feel it at all. Like it's been there forever."

"I … I'm not sure how I feel about that." It's an understatement. In truth, he's horrified that someone or some_thing_ marked his brother. That Dean has to walk around from now on with a brand on him, like he's that angel – or whatever's – property.

"All my other scars are gone, too," Dean adds, and Sam blinks in surprise.

"You – really? Even the old ones?"

"All of 'em. It's like he made me a new body." Dean sounds exhausted and upset, and like he's trying not to be either.

Sam wants to point out that they've never heard of anything that could do that before, and that it's more proof that this Castiel probably _is_ really an angel, but he doesn't. He traces the handprint with his fingers again and Dean considers him for a moment. Sam shivers just a little as Dean's piercing eyes look right through him. Then Dean leans in and presses a quick kiss to Sam's forehead, and stands up. He walks over to the chair where Sam had left his duffel bag and rummages through the pockets until he finds a small knife. He sits back down beside Sam and holds the knife out.

"What are you doing?" Sam asks warily.

"Take it," Dean says seriously. "Cut me, leave a scar."

Sam stares at him. "What – what are you talking about?"

"They're all gone. Everywhere I've been shot or stabbed or had claws in me, it's like all that never happened. So let's make new ones. It'll make you feel better about the handprint." Dean pushes the handle of the knife into Sam's hand.

"I – no, Dean that's – that's not what I meant," Sam stutters. He shakes his head helplessly, suddenly freaked out again at what Dean's suggesting.

"I know it isn't. But I can tell you wish it was you who'd left a mark on me, so do it. I don't care."

"I _don't_ want to!" Sam insists.

"It'll make you feel better," Dean repeats. Sam's pretty sure Dean's being completely serious, and it scares him to see Dean caring so little about himself. It scares him a _lot_, just like it always has in the past when Dean denounces his own self-worth.

"Dean, no," Sam says firmly, gently tossing the knife onto the dresser. It bounces and falls between the piece of furniture and the wall. Sam will get it later. "I don't want to scar you, okay? I just hate that someone else did."

Dean considers Sam for a long moment, as if he's trying to decide whether or not Sam's telling the truth. Apparently deciding that he is, Dean leans forward and reattaches their lips. Sam doesn't want to let it go, he wants to talk about whatever just snapped inside Dean that had him pushing a knife into Sam's hands and asking to be marked up, but Sam doesn't have the heart to bring it back up. Dean's hands caress up Sam's chest and neck, landing on Sam's shoulders; rubbing soft circles with his thumbs. The way Dean touches and kisses Sam is gentle and almost reverent, as if Sam is something precious and breakable, and it's all Sam can do to keep himself together. He runs a hand up Dean's leg, feeling the heat from Dean's skin even through the thick layer of denim.

"What d'you want?" Sam asks. His head spins with arousal but he doesn't want to assume anything. There's still distance between them and Sam doesn't want to make it worse.

"Whatever. Anything."

"You're sure about this, though, right? 'Cause we don't have to … you don't have to do this for me."

"I'm not." Dean licks his lips and looks up at Sam for a moment, and Sam fixes him with a look he hopes communicates that Dean can tell him anything. Dean sighs and drops his gaze again and focuses at a spot on Sam's chest. "Today's just been … it's just a lot to process all at once, that's all. I'm not sure what to make of any of this."

"I know." Sam leans his forehead against Dean's, bringing both hands up to massage Dean's neck.

Dean squeezes Sam thighs. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't be. Dean, please, you don't have anything to be sorry for, okay?"

Sam wraps his arms around Dean and pulls him in closer. Dean draws in a shaky breath, but slides his arms around Sam's waist and relaxes a little against Sam's shoulder.

"I love you so much," Sam whispers, not caring that his voice breaks somewhere in the middle. It's been over a hundred days since he's had a reason to say those words.

Dean stays silent but he maybe hugs Sam a little tighter.

"We don't have to do anything, okay?" Sam murmurs, gently rubbing Dean's neck. "Whatever you want. We can talk, or we can just lie here, or shit, we can go to a strip club if you want to, I don't care."

"You wanna go to a strip club?"

Sam can hear Dean's smile, and mirrors it. "I'm saying I don't care what we do. As long as I'm with you."

Dean looks up and Sam's relieved to see laughter in his green eyes.

"You somehow managed to turn into even more of a sap while I was gone, did you?" Dean chuckles, but Sam finds it hard to see the humor.

"I'm just … I tried so hard to get you back. I really did. And then finally I had to accept that I couldn't, and it … I spent a year terrified of what was gonna happen when your deal was up, and then four months completely lost without you and hating myself for not being able to save you."

Dean's expression turns serious again and he presses a few soft kisses to Sam's mouth. "That was never your fault."

"Yes it was." Sam doesn't mean to say it, but all the guilt and devastation he's trying so hard to hold in seem intent on pouring out.

"What're you talking about?" Dean asks.

"I – if I'd wasted that son-of-a-bitch Jake when I had the chance …" Sam can't finish the sentence. It hurts too much.

Shaking his head, Dean brushes the hair away from Sam's face. "Don't say that."

"Why not? It's true."

"No it isn't. You're not a murderer, Sam. Besides, it was my choice to make the deal. And I'd do it again, a hundred times, if it meant you'd be safe."

Sam's eyes fill with tears again, but he refuses to let them fall. In a lot of ways he hates that his brother is so fiercely protective of him; so willing to sacrifice himself to keep Sam safe. He's always wished Dean would value himself enough to believe his own life is just as important as Sam's, and never more than after Dean had gone to Hell so Sam wouldn't have to. But when it really comes down to it, Sam knows that's just one of a million ways that Dean silently tells Sam how much he loves him.

Sam tightens his grip on Dean and tries to concentrate on the fact that he's alive, that he's back, that Sam can feel his heartbeat. It still feels like a dream, but he's really here, in Sam's arms again. So maybe for tonight that will have to be enough.

As if reading his thoughts, suddenly Dean's kissing him again, more urgently this time. Sam can't control himself any more. He missed Dean too much, was too wrecked and broken without him. He pushes Dean back down to the mattress and lies on top of him. Sam kisses him, sweeping his tongue around in Dean's mouth. Long, slow, deep kisses that have Sam's brain forgetting words it's known for more than twenty years. More than anything, Sam just wants to remind them both that they have each other back. He lets himself get lost in the warmth and security of Dean's mouth, and finds the blood in his body heading south again when Dean's hips thrust up a little. He licks and kisses a path along Dean's jaw, loving the contrast of rough stubble on smooth skin against his lips. He gently nips at Dean's neck; Sam feels like he could spend hours like this – just tasting Dean. Four months had been almost long enough for Sam to forget what his brother tastes like, and now the familiar mix of salt and sweat and musk that's uniquely Dean explodes on Sam's tongue.

"Sammy," Dean growls, and heat pools low in Sam's stomach at hearing his name said like that.

_So much for foreplay_, Sam thinks, but maybe now isn't the time. Maybe Dean just needs him, and that's more than okay with Sam. He abandons his exploration of Dean's chest and moves lower, wrestling Dean's jeans and boxers off as he does. Sam can't help pausing for just a moment to drink in the sight of all that hard muscle draped in golden skin. Dean is breathtaking; eyes dark, lips parted, abs clenched as he tries to steady his breathing. He's beautiful like this. Always has been. And Sam has him back. He keeps momentarily forgetting that, and then remembering it and wanting to cry with how happy it makes him.

He places feather-light kisses up the underside of Dean's erection, wanting to re-familiarize himself with every bump, every line. He presses his tongue into the slit, and then takes the head into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it twice and then pulling away, breathing hot air onto the wet skin. Dean moans softly and Sam smiles to himself. He's always loved being able to draw those noises out of Dean. Everything they do tonight is something Sam thought he'd never do again, and it isn't lost on him how important that is. It's more than overwhelming.

Sam licks at the head a couple more times, and then slowly takes Dean into his mouth. He sucks around the crown and strokes Dean slowly with his hand, while Dean pants and tugs at Sam's hair. Sam missed everything about this. His senses absorb it like sponges, the taste, the sounds, the smell, all trying to tattoo themselves to Sam's brain so he never forgets again. Sam prays to God he'll never have to.

"Hey, Sammy?"

Sam looks up to find Dean propped up on his elbows, his eyes dark with want and need and desperation. He raises his eyebrows instead of answering, still swirling his tongue over the underside of Dean's cock.

"Fuck me?" he asks, almost shyly.

Sam stares at him for a moment. "You – really?"

Dean shrugs a little, looks away, and doesn't answer.

It's not that Sam doesn't want to. It's just not at all how he was expecting this to go. Dean bottoms sometimes, but not as much as Sam does and Sam had just naturally assumed Dean would want to be in the driver's seat tonight. Dean's eyeing him self-consciously, like he's worried Sam doesn't want to, and that's the last thing Sam wants him to think so he crawls back up Dean's body and kisses him again. Dean slides his fingers into Sam's hair and pulls Sam down so their bodies are aligned again, rolling his hips up into Sam's and sending sparks of arousal up Sam's spine.

"Just … why?" Sam asks softly. "I mean, I want to. Don't get me wrong, I do. It's just not … you know."

Dean still doesn't say anything for a moment. He keeps Sam's face close to his own, his eyes closed and breathing Sam's air, and then his voice is small when he says, "It's okay. If you wanna … whatever you want."

Sam shakes his head, instantly regretting questioning it. He still doesn't quite understand it. Usually, when Dean's got a crack in his armor, a spot of vulnerability, he sews it back up by doing everything he can to regain control. Sam doesn't know why Dean _wants_ to be vulnerable tonight, but he can't refuse. He doesn't want to. Not tonight. He pushes his tongue gently into Dean's mouth, swirling it around to taste the insides of his cheeks for just a moment. He feels a little bit like if he stops touching Dean, he might disappear again. Then Sam reluctantly heaves himself off the bed and goes to rummage through his duffel bag. He feels a slight twinge as his hand finds the pocket where he knows a switch blade had been earlier tonight, but he pushes the feeling aside. There'll be plenty of time for him to angst about the handprint later. Right now, Sam has more important things to concentrate on; like making his big brother feel taken care of for once. Locating the small tube, Sam quickly rids himself of his own jeans and underwear and makes his way back to a smirking Dean.

"What?" Sam asks, settling back down between Dean's knees.

Dean pushes himself back up onto his elbows, shamelessly spreading his legs to make more room for Sam. "You had lube in your bag? Been gettin' some?"

Sam sees the smile on Dean's face, but he also sees the pain behind it, no matter how hard Dean's trying to mask it. Dean's never said it out loud, but Sam knows he hates the idea of Sam being with another guy, almost as much as Sam does. He shakes his head and leans forward to brush his lips over Dean's, hopefully reassuringly. "I wouldn't. Not ever. It was still there from … you know."

_From before you died_. They both knew what he meant, but there's no way Sam could have said it out loud.

Dean's smile fades instantly. "You – you kept it?"

"I couldn't throw it out," Sam admits quietly. "'Cause …"

He doesn't finish, but he knows Dean knows what he means. Sam never threw it out because it would have been like accepting that Dean wasn't coming back.

"I guess my ass is lucky you're the sentimental type."

Sam manages to smile a little. He knows what Dean's doing – if he turns it into a joke, he doesn't have to think about how miserable Sam was without him. It's a classic Dean defense mechanism, but this time Sam's grateful it. The last thing he wants to think about right now is how many times he'd accidentally come across that tube while looking for something else, and then just stared at it for an hour, trying to convince himself not to cry.

"Sammy?" Dean reaches for Sam and pulls him back down for a kiss. "Let's be chicks later, okay?"

At that, Sam actually laughs. "Yeah, okay."

He sucks on Dean's bottom lip while he rubs the bottle against his leg to warm it up, and then coats his fingers. Sitting up a little, Sam trails lube-sticky fingers down Dean's chest, over his cock, and behind the swell of his balls to the little opening. He presses against it, watching Dean's face closely for any sign of him changing his mind, and then pushes just the tip of his finger inside. Dean inhales audibly, but his eyes darken as Sam works his finger in.

"You okay?" he asks, and Dean nods.

Sam pushes his hand forward until he's in all the way. He curves his finger a little, knowing exactly where Dean's prostate is and scratching a nail against it. Dean's eyes flutter closed and he arches into Sam's touch.

"More," Dean requests softly.

Sam moves back a little so he can bend down and take Dean's cock back into his mouth. Sam's whole body is thrumming with arousal, muscles aching for him to chase after the pleasure of being encased by Dean, but he holds back. He bobs his head, letting Dean's cock slide in and out of his mouth, as he adds a second finger. He spreads them apart a little, torn to pieces by the look of pleasure on his brother's face and the breathless moans spilling from his lips. Last week, if given the chance, Sam would have agreed to die a thousand times just to be able to see that face again. And now Dean's here, and it takes all Sam has in him to not pounce and shove himself into Dean and come surrounded by the tight walls of the man he loves more than anything.

"I'm ready Sam, do it," Dean says roughly.

Sam pushes a third finger into Dean's body, and lets Dean's cock slip out of his mouth enough to explain, "Want this to be good for you."

Dean growls in frustration and squeezes his eyes shut. Sam smiles. He keeps his fingers pumping in and out of Dean's body, crooking them to hit his prostate just to hear him moan, and he moves somewhat awkwardly back up to kiss Dean's eyelids. When Dean opens them, there's so much love and trust behind the blown pupils that Sam nearly breaks. Instead, he gives in to the look on Dean's face and pulls his fingers out.

"You sure about this?"

Dean grabs Sam's face and kisses him hard in response, and Sam takes that as a _yes_. He reaches behind himself for the discarded tube and pops it open.

"Wait, no. Let me." Dean sits up and takes the tube from Sam.

Sam has no idea why, but in that moment the gesture is worth a thousand _I love you_s from a man who doesn't say it often. Sam's always said it too much, he knows, but he can never stop himself. Dean squeezes the clear gel onto his fingers and spreads it over Sam, looking up with heavily lidded eyes. Sam's skin is so oversensitive he can barely feel his brother's touch; almost numb with want and need.

"Love you," he whispers against Dean's lips.

"I know. You said that already."

"Yeah, well, get used to hearing it a lot."

"I can think of worse things," Dean murmurs and kisses Sam, slow and gentle.

Sam lets himself fall into the warmth of the kiss, momentarily forgetting how much they both need release, and need to be connected. Sam needs to feel whole again.

Dean pulls back; his eyes pleading.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, pushing Dean back onto the mattress and leaning over to kiss him again.

Putting a hand between their bodies, he lines himself up and pushes slowly into the tight, welcoming heat. Dean's mouth falls open in a silent moan; and Sam's self control fails him miserably but he doesn't care. He chokes on a strangled groan when he's all the way in, vision going blurry with how good it feels. It's snug and warm and suddenly Sam's whole body feels like it's wrapped up just as tightly. Dean's always made him feel that way. Safe, and warm. And loved.

"Fuck," Dean breathes, wrapping his arms around Sam's back and digging blunt fingernails into his skin.

"Are you …?"

"Sam. _Move_."

Sam reattaches their lips, planting his hand next to Dean's head for balance and beginning to rock slowly. Dean's lips are like fire against his, and every thrust is like an electric charge shooting though Sam's body. God, he's missed this.

"C'mon, Sammy, more," Dean moans. "Wanna feel you."

"So good, missed you so much," Sam mutters, mouthing along Dean's cheek as he shoves into him.

Sam starts moving faster, control quickly slipping away, pulling almost all the way out and thrusting back in. Dean groans his approval, and it lights Sam up and spurs him on. He reaches down, grabbing Dean's thigh and hoisting it up so Dean wraps both legs around Sam's waist, and Sam changes the angle just a little to find Dean's prostate again. Dean almost whimpers with each hit, a noise he'll be self-conscious about later but Sam could die with how hot it is. There's so much blood rushing in Sam's head that he can't even hear the noises he's making himself, though he's sure they're just as embarrassing. Or, he'd be embarrassed if it were anyone but Dean.

Sam drops down to his elbows so their bodies are even closer, so Dean's cock rubs between their stomachs while Sam thrusts into him. Dean kisses him breathless, pushing his tongue into Sam's mouth and swirling it in that way that makes Sam forget his own name. Then Dean grabs one of Sam's wrists, forcing him to still his movements and balance on the other forearm, and guides Sam's hand in between their chests. He presses Sam's palm to the spot just above his heart where the anti-possession tattoo is – and at least the angel thought to leave that where it was. Dean's heartbeat races under Sam's fingers, and Sam rubs his thumb over the black mark on his brother's skin that's identical to the one above his own heart.

"This is the one that matters," Dean says quietly, lifting his own hand up to touch the tattoo on Sam's chest. He kisses the corner of Sam's mouth and whispers, "This one means you'n'me."

Sam nods, closing his eyes against the burning behind them. Dean's words, and the intense meaning behind them, choke him up too much to answer, so he just starts rocking into Dean's body again. Dean opens his eyes and looks up at Sam with desperation written all over his sweat-dappled face, so Sam snakes a hand between their bodies and wraps it around Dean's cock. He stokes it roughly in time with his thrusts, twisting on the way up and squeezing the head the way he knows Dean likes.

"Oh God, Sam, yeah. Just like that."

Sam's body feels like it's on fire, and at the same time mildly hypothermic. He feels like a damn teenager again, but the weight of what they're finally doing again and what it _means_; it has Sam close to the edge way sooner than he'd like. Sam wants this to last forever, but then he remembers that they have all the time in the world now. That they can do this every night until they're old. Dean's not going anywhere, not again. Sam won't let him.

Dean's close too, Sam can tell by the sound of his breathing. His inner muscles clench around Sam, shooting stars behind Sam's eyelids and heat over his skin, burrowing into his bones. Sam squeezes around the head of Dean's cock, stoking hard a few times as he pushes the tip of his own cock into Dean's prostate, and Dean tenses and explodes, hot and wet coating Sam's hand. A thrust and a half later and Sam follows, with a low moan and an orgasm that's like a punch to the gut.

He collapses down on top of Dean, probably knocking the wind out of him a little but Sam's arms couldn't hold him up anymore. Dean lifts his arms and wraps them around Sam's back, and Sam closes his eyes. He breathes heavily into Dean's neck, feeling the mirrored rise and fall of the chest below him. He isn't sure how long he lies there, willing his heartbeat to steady, but it doesn't matter. He's with Dean; he could lie here until he starves to death and not care either way. Wrapped up in Dean's arms, Sam doesn't ever want to move again.

"Holy shit," Sam breathes when he finally regains the ability to form semi-coherent thoughts.

"Yeah," Dean agrees shakily. He doesn't say anything else, and Sam gets it. Words wouldn't really mean much right now anyway.

He lifts his hips enough to let his softening cock slip out of Dean's body, and they shift around until they can get under the scratchy motel sheet. Dean pulls Sam back in, cradling Sam against his chest like he used to, and Sam blinks back tears, burying his face into Dean's neck. Two decades of Dean being the center of Sam's universe, and Sam can't ever shake him loose. He couldn't do it while he was at Stanford, and he couldn't do it while Dean was in Hell. Dean is a load-bearing beam in Sam's life, the pillar that keeps him from crumbling. Without Dean, Sam is lost. Sam doesn't care what happens; the next time Dean dies, Sam's dying with him.

Something is still wrong. Sam can tell. It's a by-product of spending the last twenty years following Dean around, looking up to him, loving him. There's something behind Dean's eyes, something dark and secret. After what must've happened to Dean in Hell, Sam isn't surprised. He can't even imagine – doesn't want to, either. Maybe Dean doesn't consciously remember it, but maybe there's some _part_ of him that does. Or maybe it's something else entirely. Selfishly, Sam doesn't want to know. If Dean says he's fine, Sam's going to believe him, even if it's not quite as true as either of them would like.

"You okay?" Dean asks quietly, kissing Sam's forehead.

"Yeah," Sam whispers. It's mostly true, so that's good enough. "Still can't believe I have you back."

"I know. It's good, though, right?"

"It's …" Sam closes his eyes again against the burning. "God. It's amazing."

Dean nods and hugs Sam a little tighter. He falls silent and Sam does too, just soaking up the warmth and the familiar embrace and swearing to himself that now that he has Dean back, he's never letting him go again.


End file.
